


May All Sins Be Remembered

by Sekxtion



Series: All Sins, Half Truths, and No Morals [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-08
Updated: 2016-12-08
Packaged: 2018-09-07 06:19:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8786860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sekxtion/pseuds/Sekxtion
Summary: He has her location now.  Perhaps he will do a housecall of his own.For old time's sake.





	

The extraction of the agent dossier from Athena had been halted, true, and the lives of his strike team lost in a spectacular fashion, but he had the location of the one name he was after:

 

 **Subject:** Ziegler, Angela Brunhild

 **Qualifications:** Medical Professor Emeritus (University of Bern), Overwatch field agent and Head of Medical Research (formerly), expert in battlefield triage and mass casualty events, UN Special Consultant on the First and Second Omnic Crises (ongoing), volunteer for _Médecins_   _sans_   _Frontiers_ (ongoing), **f** oremost expert on, and inventor of, nanobiotic medicine.

 **Known Associates:** SEE: Overwatch, extended dossier [HERE], no known personal relationships.

 **Last known location:** 34.6187° N, 43.6567° E (Tikrit, Iraq)

 

He chuckles quietly, the sound like gravel being crushed.  She was half a world away and nowhere near far enough to escape what was coming.

 

/ / / / /

 

Talon had always been a means to an end, just a stepping stone to righting a laundry list of wrongs committed against him over the years: 

 

First, Morrison being appointed the de facto figurehead, and then Strike Commander, of Overwatch. Because it was easier to pretend that what the organization did was righteous and just when the message was delivered by someone who looked so fucking wholesome. 

 

The orders were never questioned: take that hill, neutralize that threat, sacrifice the few to save the many; sacrifice _his_ few to save _their_ many.  Offer up Blackwatch as the sacrificial lamb on the altar of political expediency in order to save, if not forward, the agenda of Overwatch.  Abandon friends and comrades-in-arms for nothing more than an ‘attaboy’ from the UN and the promise of Overwatch’s continued existence. 

 

The man he had bled for times beyond counting, almost died for on numerous occasions, had entrusted with his life for years, had done the dirty jobs for so that Jack could keep his hands clean ( _“plausible deniability, Gabe!”_ ) cutting him loose instead of fighting for him, for his people.  Jack deserved to watch all that he worked for burn and Reyes had been delighted to hold the match. 

 

To find out ol’ Jacky was still alive?  A mistake, but one easily rectified.  Time was now, after all, on his side.

 

The second insult: Amari being tapped as Second-in-Command.  He had no qualms with her qualifications: she was a superlative soldier, had been a trusted confidant, and with her whip-snap command voice and larger-than-life presence, was accustomed to being obeyed and brooking no disagreement.  She was direly needed to herd Overwatch’s motley collection of personalities into anything resembling a cohesive whole. 

 

No, where he drew issue was where she had went behind his back and signed off on Jack’s promotion in the UN committee hearings over himself.  In spite Overwatch being his baby, despite the sacrifices he had made, _they_ , Blackwatch, had made, spitting on the martyrdom and Herculean acts of valor of his people, dead on lost and forgotten battlefields that would never be admitted or commemorated. 

 

The why of her decision didn’t matter, just the result. 

 

Add the confrontation in Egypt to that particular ledger, her intervention allowing Morrison to escape what he was so overdue to receive.  Amari might have given death the slip once, but he was wise to her now.

 

But the kicker, and the name at the tippy top of The List?   _Dr._ Angela Ziegler.  Medical genius, wunderkind, expert battlefield medic, all things to everyone who needs her.   _Meddling bitch_. 

 

He and the good doctor hadn’t associated much during the halcyon days of Overwatch and Blackwatch outside of what his line of work required: the occasional stitch, taped ribs, and on one memorable occasion, pins in his femur. 

 

She had once cowed Jesse McCree when he had tried to play off six cracked ribs and a collapsed lung.  McCree had flatly refused to report to the infirmary, a state of affairs that Ziegler had been unprepared to entertain.  A swift jab to McCree’s solar plexus and a quick slap to his cracked ribs and the reticent cowboy had abruptly passed out, to be quickly transported by the waifish doctor to her operating theater. 

 

He hadn’t any real views on the doctor one way or the other, but he respected her resolve and her dedication to her task.

 

That had changed, of course, after his and Jacky’s little _battle royale_. 

 

He remembered laying in the shattered remains of the headquarters and laughing, cackling, the sound almost immediately lost in a hacking cough due to the blood in his mouth, or maybe the piece of rebar punched through his sternum.  It hadn’t mattered, death was nothing after experiencing vindication, after forcing Jack to admit as their mutual dream crumbled around them, that he was no better than Reyes.  Jack was just willing to be dishonest about it, he was willing to gild the truth to sell the lie. 

 

He knew he was dying.  Death was an old friend, nothing to be afraid of. 

 

And then _she_ appeared, gleaming white, staff in hand, halo perched atop ashen hair, golden wings flaring out behind her as she knelt over him. 

 

An angel.  Her armor made her look like an angel.  The fucking hubris of it was appalling. 

 

She mouthed something he couldn’t hear through the shock, reached down to him.  Something had been in her hand, a syringe?  No, one of her nano-injectors, freshly designed and produced, still untested.  No.  _No_.  She was going to rob him of his respite, his peace, his---he tried to push away her hand holding the injector but they had not obeyed him.  No.  NO.  _NononononoNONONO--_

 

It had stung when she pressed it to his neck and he had felt the serum rushing through his flesh, felt it haphazardly sewing his tattered life back into his body.  He hated her then, he hated her like he had never hated anything before in his life, or ever would.

 

The last thing he saw was her face, and she had smiled at him, beatific.  He’d kill her, he’d KILL her, he’d---

 

The rest is a blur.  His memory has enormous gaps, patched with half-recollected images:

 

The Good Doctor, her normally unblemished countenance marked by deep circles under her eyes, hair disheveled.  She’s muttering in German, the words low and frantic, sapphire and entirely too bright eyes slightly crazed, darting from his body to her medical diagnostic display.

 

The sound of her Caduceus Staff dumping millions of nanites into his battered body as he felt himself seize and convulse, the pain astounding, Ziegler straddling him as she attempted to brute force his heart back into rhythm.

 

 The sounds of traffic outside of…a van?  The gurney he is strapped to shakes.  Was The Bitch  transporting him?  The pain rips through his body again, heat so intense it feels like he’s melting.  She appears over him, not doubt alerted by her medical scanners of his being conscious. She smiles again, but still looks exhausted and…sad?  She whispers as she injects something into the IV near his head: _I’ll make this right, Gabriel, please rest_ …

 

But she didn’t make it right. 

 

He awoke, really awoke, in the custody of Talon.  His rage at the Doctor had seen the soldiers assigned to guard him killed in seconds, their vitae ripped out of them.  After that a menial had come, no doubt someone the higher ups were displeased with, to the make their offer: his services for a chance to strike back at Overwatch and the world which had seen fit to colour them all traitors and renounced their dead. 

 

He had accepted, of course, the pact signed by his murdering their lackey. 

 

And, it was implied to him later, if he happened to use Talon’s resources to locate one Dr. Angela Ziegler?  Well, that suited Talon just fine.  If he killed her, he was to secure her research and turn it over to Talon.  If he captured her?  Talon always had use for prodigious medical talent, willing or not…

 

/ / / / /

 

He shakes his head as he comes back to himself.  The Doctor’s location hash floats in front of his face still, projected from the small screen built into his gauntlet, bright in the darkness of the room. 

 

No personal relationships, huh?  Well, she had always kept to herself.  Her lab and her Universal Constructors had been all the company she needed during her time in Overwatch.  Ana had often had to coax her out of her lab and to eat by having the ape kill power to her medical research wing.   

 

It appeared that not much had changed…

 

…still…

 

…Perhaps it was time the Good Doctor received a visitor, perhaps it was high time she was reassured that the world hadn’t forgotten about all of her handiwork.

 

He kills the hologram with a vicious swipe of his palm across his gauntlet, plunging the room back into darkness. 

 

He smiles, skin stitched together by diseased and corrupted nanobiotics pulling tight over his face.  He can vaguely taste blood in his mouth. 

 

Yes.  It was time Doctor Angela Ziegler had an old _friend_ drop by. 

 

His footsteps sound like gunshots as he leaves the dark room behind.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This will, hopefully, be the first in a series. I'll getting back into writing after a years long hiatus, so if your interest is piqued, follow along as I hopefully English good.
> 
> The dynamic between Reyes and Ziegler is fascinating. He's the monster to her Frankenstein.
> 
> Eventual Pharmercy.


End file.
